


Ain't it Fun

by Cafe_nina



Category: Batfamily - Fandom, Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Family, Gen, Rated for language and violence, alternate title Rose Wilson becomes part of the Batfamily, might add char tags as I go as long as things don't get cluttered, no romance other than confirmed, will probably become a true AU once season 3 hits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-21 00:18:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13729119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cafe_nina/pseuds/Cafe_nina
Summary: A dark laugh curls in his ear. “Speechless is good, I need you to listen. I have a favor to ask. You’ve made the acquaintance of the lovely young woman who tried stabbing you, yes?”He looks up to find her staring at him (them?) murderously.“I’m afraid so,” he answers.“Careful now,” the voice plays at humor but a threat is there. “That’s my daughter you’re talking about.”He can feel the dread in his gut roll when the recognition finally hits. Deathstroke. It’s Deathstroke. He’s talking to Slade Wilson. Who has a kid apparently.(Rose Wilson becomes Nightwing's protégé, it goes about as well as expected.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to a very self indulgent project that took far too long, basically I heard about Rose Wilson's existence and I couldn't /not/ write about her. Add being a fan of YJ and also finding out in canon that Nightwing trained her for a while and you get this. I'll be trying to follow the road Invasion laid out but I can't make any promises, this is probably already way off as far as s3 is concerned but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> if there's any confusion about anything please ask and feel free to talk to me! I'm hyped folks, I'm not entirely sure what all will happen but I'm excited, and if you're just as excited let me know. it helps. otherwise my writing speed drops and that's no fun for anyone.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

 

He should get a car someday.

He could probably afford something nice, fast, (not black), just so he has another way of getting around. Heated seats would be a plus, heated anything right now would beat walking home in the freezing rain in the middle of September.

Bludhaven isn’t a small city, it sprawls out over the coast, starts and stops whenever it wants, while downtown runs like a river of highrises and skyscrapers down the center. It’s ragged in a lot of places but it's growing. Gotham is bigger with every bit of the city packed into whatever space that’s left, everything uptown is either old or repurposed and the people treat it that way. The sister cities share similar scars, but Gotham’s run deeper and the island city is far better at hiding them. However, very much like Gotham, the Bloody Haven is also on the water, so when the wind blows right and the rain kicks in it makes the winter months feel fuckin’ glacial.

Just like home.

He’s used to swinging above the buildings in dark kevlar, driving back home hasn’t been an issue up until he started to actually live here. He could always just take a bus or a cab but he’s only a few blocks from a corner drug store, it feels lazy. Plus after the last ride he took all he had gotten was a lot of judgemental glances thrown at him in a rear view mirror. It had been under 30 all day and still this guy had huffed a laugh when he told him to keep the change. Well who’s laughin’ now?

He can feel his teeth slide against each other dully as he blinks the sleet from his eyes. Him. He’s laughing. Cause it’s 0 degrees outside and his dignity has just frozen over for a gallon of milk and hot pockets.

He’s getting a car someday.

This is mostly his fault, he’s been out on surveillance for almost a week tailing some gun runners. The only reason it’s taken this long is because he’s pretty sure one of them’s police. He’s struggling with finding any direct ties and he’d hate to tip his hand before he can catch a dirty cop. Bugging traffic cams and digging into the Bludhaven PD has taken up the bulk of his time, restocking on food has been a low priority. He tries not to glare enviously at the sudan that drives past him.

Jogging back to that zeta off of Kingsland seems less and less ridiculous every slick piece of sidewalk he almost breaks an ankle on. Words like _inane_ and _unnecessary_ rasp in a dark voice he hasn’t heard in nearly three months and now the chill feels fitting. Last time he saw Bruce was on the news, urging support for some benefit some blue blood had thrown for some noble cause. After ten years, they tend to bleed together.

He remembers it because some local Gotham reporter had been asking about him, where is Dick Grayson? Is he okay? The city hasn’t seen him being rich and useless for months. Mr. Wayne had assured her that Gotham’s favorite adopted son was just fine. _“Dick has always happily stood behind charitable causes such as the Partridge Foundation. He is, however, nineteen and does have a life of his own to pursue. Meaning he doesn’t have as much time to attend to charity events as he used to.”_

_“Then what is he up to?”_

_Bruce tips the champagne glass away from his lips and levels a crooked smile at the reporter, “Let’s just says boys will be boys, and I’m going to leave it at that.”_

Barb has yet to let him live that line down.

Last he talked to her was Saturday night when she had sent him the link to the clip, and that’s when the talking had stopped and she had started wheezing instead. She had a habit of calling him every couple of weeks and filling him in on Team activity, and by habit he means he basically asked her to.

Tim is doing well, he’s gotten more confident, more likely to set the pace, more Robin. It seems the new relationship has done _wonders_ for his self-confidence. ( _"I_ _hate you and your lame ass puns.” “Shut up, you love me.”)_ The new recruits are integrating well, Kaldur has fallen right back into stride, M’gann, Gar, and Connor are all moved into the Watchtower now. It’s always good news, successful missions, victory selfies, birthday parties. Every time he jokes about not even needing to come back she snorts and says something about how he isn’t allowed to leave after roping her into this, which is _not_ true, she’s always known where she wants to be. She'll ask when he is coming back, he still never knows what to say.

He wants it to burn, how he doesn't seem to be missed, but it's a relief and that's what burns.

He finally sloshes up to his complex and gingerly eases his way up the slick stairs to his front door, already fishing for his key. His clumsy cold hands slip it into the lock and grind it roughly to pry the bolt open. He sighs at the blast of heat that rolls into him and shuts the door with his heel. Living alone is great, until you have to run to the 24 hour place down the street at 2 am because you don’t have any food. He owes Alfred a hundred thank you cards for keeping him alive.

The fleece he’s wearing is soaked, he swears to clean up the water later as he steps to lay his bags on his kitchen table. Mid stride he realizes something is off.

The table has been moved, shifted a corner more towards him when it should be straight, from here he can see a drawer in the kitchen that’s completely open, silverware, he hasn’t been here all day.

He sets the bags down carefully and glances around, No motion triggers on the back of the door, no trip wires, the living room is untouched and empty, windows are closed and locked, but he can’t see down the hallway from here.

His apartment isn’t looted so this is an ambush? It’s so sloppy. Two working explanations. An awful practical joke. Someone who knows where he lives and knows _who_ he is. Barb? Out of town. Garfield? Not really his style. He peers into the open drawer. Knives, plural, are missing. A harmless prank wouldn't need knives. One working explanation: amateur hitman, emphasis on the amateur. Seriously, who takes out a target with their own knives? Secret unlikely option number two is that this might actually be a professional trying to throw him off but this all seems too clumsy. This person isn't here for Nightwing then.

He slips around to the living room (Still no wires, not even pressure or motion triggers. Wow.) and from there he can see an empty hall and the door to the spare room, bathroom, and his bedroom. Bedroom door is the only one shut, not the way he left it. Open doors was an old house rule, it's safer than a closed one. There’s only one way to surprise his attacker in this situation. Because of course he wants to break his own door down.

He stretches his neck as he walks down the hall, wincing at the catches in his muscles. Nightwing would break down the door, Dick Grayson should be walking to his room unaware of any potential danger.

It’s past 2 in the morning, he's doing whatever the hell he wants.

He throws his door open and it crashes into the wall with a loud thud. Nothing goes off. The figure wielding his knives isn't there, his windows are closed, the only sign of life is his unmade bed.

He sighs audibly, he's an id--

He reels forward at the new weight on his back. A slight forearm immediately digs into his throat while the other with a knife slices at him wildly. He gains a grip on their knife hand as he sends his head backward. They snarl and he turns before shooting backwards and slamming them into the wall. Twice, until the grip around his neck loosens.

He let's them fall off and then quickly turns back. Shocking white hair, long, female, young, fifteen or sixteen, it’s about as much as he can gather from the dim lighting streaming through his blinds. He toes his knife out of her hand and out of reach as she gropes at her nose, the back of her head, her eyes are shut with pain. When he thought amateur he didn't think amateur at life.

“Who are you?” he should probably try to sound more shocked, breathless.

She glares when she finally looks up at him. “Who are _you_?” she finally rasps.

Witty. He raises an eyebrow. “You attacked me.” He doesn't miss the way her hands slip into her hoodie. There are his knives.

“You kidnapped me!” she yells.

Okay, that’s off. She's not an assassin, no equipment, no weaponry (not really), hell, an assassin would know who they were sent to assassinate. She's also under the impression that she's been abducted.

“I did not kidnap you.” He tries again, more a question, less a demand. “Who are you?”

She brings her legs up to her chest and holds his gaze defiantly, which he assumes is supposed to be an appropriate reaction.

He crouches, very slowly, just out of her range. They both notice. She's no nobody, it takes more than a nobody to catch him off guard, she's had training or has at least been in a fight before, both prospects are disconcerting.

Time to make it concerting then. “Okay, too personal, where are you from then?” _How are you in my apartment?_

She wrinkles her nose. “That's not personal?”

“We have to start somewhere. You already know where I live.” He offers, it's getting harder to keep the frustration out of his voice.

“Not really and not by choice.” She hisses back.

He sighs, it's really too late for this, but he really, really, really doesn’t wanna involve the cops if he can help it. That could go very badly for either of them. “What do you mean not by choice?"

She glares at him. “I woke up here, you were coming in and then you broke down the door and rammed your giant head into my nose.”

“After you sliced me with my own knife.” Her eyes narrow even further and he forces himself to breath in. This situation is starting to feel more and more like a set up, for Dick Grayson or Nightwing he can’t tell yet, either option makes him tense.

The silence is interrupted by a ringing. Her eyes widen in surprise but she still quickly yanks her cell phone out of her jeans. She glances at the number then at him.

“Again, not kidnapping you.” he snaps.

Her lips are tight when she puts the phone to her ear. “Dad, wh--” She's immediately cut off but even this close he can't hear what the other person is saying.

Her eyes widen, “Why don’t you tell me what's going on?” She clenches her jaw shut, frustration clear, before roughly pointing her cell at him. “He wants to talk to you,” she murmurs darkly.

Uh. He looks between her and her hand. “Do you want me to talk to him?”

She just shakes the phone at him wordlessly. Carefully, he takes it and presses it to his ear. God, this better not be some tabloid trying to catch him in a scandal. ”Hello?”

“Hello, Robin.”

Shit.

The voice is distantly familiar, deep, he can't place the name yet. A dark laugh curls in his ear. “Speechless is good, I need you to listen. I have a favor to ask. You’ve made the acquaintance of the lovely young woman who tried stabbing you, yes?”

He looks up to find her staring at him (them?) murderously.

“I’m afraid so,” he answers.

“Careful now,” the voice plays at humor but a threat is there. “That’s my daughter you’re talking about.”

He can feel the dread in his gut roll when the recognition finally hits. Deathstroke. It’s Deathstroke. He’s talking to Slade Wilson. Who has a kid apparently.

“Congrats Wilson, you planning on settling down now? Wouldn't recommend Bludhaven, too many low lives.” He glances out the window and nothing stands out. Cameras? No. Phone? Not likely. He's probably hidden deep in a building across the way, if he’s even here at all.

“Well I would settle in Gotham if it weren’t for the bat problem.” How does he know?

“Never heard that one before.” How did he find him?

“Enough, we’ve got business to discuss.” He tries to pick up on any background noise but there’s nothing. Just Slade. “To shorten a very long story, my girl needs asylum. I’ve run afoul of some very dangerous people and she’s no longer safe with me.”

He stands, watches as the daughter of Deathstroke curls against his wall and scowls. “What do you want me to do, Slade, drop her off at a fire station?”

His reply is instant. “You’re lucky I’m short on time, Grayson.” His last name whistles past clenched teeth and he feels like the air’s been punched from his lungs. “You’ll be harboring her personally until I deem it safe, and she’ll stay safe while in your care. No police, no League, no other outside players. This stays between us. In return I keep the Wayne family secret buried.”

He finally grits out, “That’s hardly a guarantee.” _Especially coming from you._

“You’re going to have to have a little faith then.”

He’s cornered, either he works this sham deal with an assassin or he loses Nightwing, and the world loses Batman, Robin, and Batgirl. No choice, no options, this doesn’t happen to him, he’s been taught his whole life to think himself out of impossible places. It’s a sensation like teetering over the edge, a blend of frustration and terror. And he’s brought Bruce, Tim, maybe even Barb into this.

He’ll regret it.

Wilson gets impatient with his silence. “Understand this does not go without risk on my end, my own daughter is a stake in our bargain. Which reminds me, should anything happen to her the loss of your anonymity will be the least of your concerns.”

“Why me then?” _Why not someone you don’t have to blackmail into keeping your daughter alive?_

Wilson sighs after a long moment. “In my line of work any kind of weakness is an open invitation to exploitation. If my considerable enemies knew of her existence she would be used against me with no hesitation. I know this unquestionably. Heroes, the League, operate differently, the only harm you’ll inflict is upon those who harm others. In this endeavor, you are reliable, even if I believe you waste your talents. As for you specifically it was a matter of the information I had come to possess.

“Plus the Bat no longer has a clean track record concerning his wards.”

The fear is gone, replaced by an old wound that burns, hot and festering,  “ _Fuck you.”_ He spits.

Laughter. “Perhaps you’re not all hero, Grayson. Give her the phone back.”

Good, he doesn’t have anything else to say.

He holds the phone out blindly, and the girl, he doesn’t even know her name, stands and quietly takes it.

“Dad, what the fuck.”

He watches her from the corner of his eye, while he tries to think. Even if Wilson is keeping tabs he can get around them. He’s in enough danger that he’s dumping his daughter with someone associated with the League, he’s desperate and distracted so hopefully he’s been sloppy as well. All they have to do is catch him. The girl’s expression morphs from anger then surprise when she turns towards him, wide eyed. Must know who he is now.

What to do about her. Keep her from talking to her father for one, get her a better life in the near future is two; he’ll need to look for close relatives. Slade’s clearly trained her but their relationship is rocky. It’s possible she doesn’t want her dad’s life, but he’s not sure, the opposite could be true as well.

She drops her gaze eventually. “So you’re just leaving?” Disbelief colors her tone. She’s quiet for a moment before hissing. “This is how it’s always going to be isn’t it? You wandering in and out of my life whenever it’s fucking convenient for you.”

He sees her try to laugh but the noise she makes is just the breath being heaved out of her. “No, go, it’s what you’re good at.”

She hangs up, stares at the dark black screen like she could break it, but her hands are shaking. He tries to swallow down every other feeling that isn’t compassion. She’s not happy about the life Slade leads, he’ll do everything he can to keep that from changing.

He gives her a minute before asking, “You okay?”

She nods before glancing at him, expression not as dark. “You’re Nightwing.”

He thinks he tries to smile. “You’re Deathstroke’s kid.”

She frowns and answers flatly. “It’s Rose.”

He stutters on giving her his actual name it’s so counter-intuitive. “Richard Grayson, but my friends call me Dick.” No point in hiding; she’d only figure it out eventually.

Her eyes widen. “Bruce Wayne’s kid?”

He definitely doesn’t smile. “One of.”

* * *

 


	2. Don't go Cryin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WWWooowww, you guys are all so sweet. Here I am posting this super indulgent thing and lots of you actually liked it! I'm so happy!
> 
> I do apologize for being a few days late, my plan was a new chapter every month but I'm slow plus just life stuff y'know? This chapter is also longer and extremely dialogue heavy so that also was kinda tricky, I feel like dialogue and action sequences are my biggest writing weaknesses so I'm gonna get some good practice in with this fic. (i.e. tell me if i suck)
> 
> I'm ngl this chapter was fun to write but also not, I'm still trying to adjust to Rose's perspective while also doing important plot stuffTM. I'm not very happy with it but I need to get away from it otherwise I'll tear it apart for another month. Let me know what you think!

* * *

 

She digs a nail into the grain of the kitchen table in the second floor apartment of a place she doesn’t know.

It’s not as nice as it could be, her high tops scrape against linoleum instead of tile, and the rest of the apartment from the kitchen to the bedroom is fairly basic. It was the pictures of people she didn’t know that tipped her off, whenever Slade moved them the places they went were empty and isolated; the more eyes the more risk.

After everything that’s happened, everything he had said, it had only taken him less than a year to drop her. It took the man the majority of her life just to learn she existed, she’d kept her expectations low. It came with the job, his job, if it can even be called work. Real work would be being a descent parent. Killing is easy, it seemed easy.

_“I never told you this was going to be permanent.”_

She hadn’t known when he’d leave, just knew eventually, and she’d been ready to make sure he could never find her again. She hadn’t counted on Dick Grayson.

He sits across from her with an open first aid kit in front of him, cleaning the cuts she gave him. He’s slouched heavily into the back of his chair, relaxed, too comfortable for someone who’s got clothes on the floor with their own blood on it. Whenever he glances up she quickly goes back to staring at the dark circles in the wood. There’s a weird sense of pride when she counts the scratches, she doesn’t want him to see it. Something like shame rolls her already sick stomach.

Even in New York the Wayne’s have a bit of a reputation, and she had remembered his face, vaguely, but not his name. The tabloids usually show him wearing thousand dollar suits and a smug grin, the kind of person you look at and just see dollar signs. This man, tired, reserved, and wiping gashes with antiseptic wipes, must be Nightwing.

Nightwing doesn’t show up on trash magazines or anything else. The vigilantes that come out of Gotham seem to operate better as half myths and shadows. Even the limelight of the League hasn’t really changed that. The only reason people can tell stories about the Knights of Gotham at all is because they’re allowed to, the no kill policy leading to the side effect of rumors too impossible to be real.

_“Stay focused, Rose, if he tries anything, get distance and contact me. I’ll handle it.”_

She’s been around dangerous people, her father is a dangerous person, he acts dangerous, bleeds it, intimidates with it, this is a quieter kind of threatening. Confident, nothing to prove, nothing to fear. It leaves her thinking she’d lucked out of their fight with just bruises.

The snap of medical tape pulls her away from the flek of wood she’s trying to repress into the table. He’s done sewing, moved on to pressing a gauze patch over the worst of her work. She tries brushing her fingers gingerly over her swollen nose, careful to hide a wince. Not broken but it hurts.

Nightwing sets the tape down and stands suddenly, she can’t help flinching back. He barely spares her the glance before he strides over to the beat up fridge (that definitely came with the unit) next to the stove. He fishes a cold pack out of the freezer and offers it to her as he sits back down. She takes it after hesitating too long. And that he looks like he’s about to comment on it, a lame attempt to soothe her probably.

She doesn’t let him. “You said we’re in Bludhaven.”

He arches an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth quirks. “That’s correct.”

God, he dragged her all the way to Jersey. Drugged her to get her to Jersey, probably thought she would resist.

“Not from around here?” He shrugs his torn shirt back on while he asks.

She narrows her eyes. She’s from Queens, but he doesn’t need to know that. She’s not sure if he needs to know anything.

Her head swims a little as she stands up. “Ok, as fun as this is I have to get going.” As if she has anywhere to go. Her old landlord has probably already re-leased the apartment, so technically she could go anywhere, and anywhere that isn’t here sounds great.

His face twists into confusion. “I don’t think you understand, did your dad not explain our situation?”

 _Not really_. She hopes her pointed silence answers his question. He sighs and starts repacking the first aid kit. “You know what your dad does, right?”

“Vaguely.” Her voice doesn’t drip with sarcasm so much as pour.

Nightwing manages to look just as unimpressed. “In his line of work you don’t make many friends. It seems like this time he's managed to upset some powerful people, powerful enough that you aren’t safe with him right now. So in the meantime he’s decided to entrust me with your protection until the situation is resolved.”

( _“Why me then?”_ )

Dad had explained that part, just not Nightwing. “But why you? You're with the League.”

He leans back into his chair, expression closed, and throws his uninjured arm over it. “Because he’s using my real identity as leverage. If anything happens to you he can reveal who Nightwing-- who I am.” He avoids her gaze by staring at the tabletop and she feels her stomach swirl. “Slade's forbidden any outside help, the only requirement is that you stay in one piece. Which means as much as I wish I could let you go, I can’t. Keeping you here with me is where you'll be safest.”

The gel beads inside the cold pack slide around in her clenched fist. Nightwing looks more apologetic than pissed, the exact opposite way she feels.

“So you’re just not going to let me leave?” She grits out as heat crawls up her neck.

Something like regret flickers over his face. “I’m sorr-”

“You’re not fucking sorry!” She yells as bile hits the back of her throat.

A muscle in his jaw clenches for a second and she takes pride in that too. “Keep in mind I’m not doing this because I choose to. The point of having a secret identity is to keep the people I’m close to safe. I’m not going to risk their lives just because you don't want to be here.”

She throws the cold pack onto the table. She wants to hit something, maybe him, mostly her Dad who has decided now was a good time to care about her. She slams back down into her chair instead, sick and dizzy; what did he give her? It’s one thing to play the unwilling ward to Slade, now a complete stranger has to watch over her because there’s a gun to his head. And this guy she’s never going to be able to lose because he’s with the fucking Justice League.

“Look,” He runs a hand through his hair and she watches the apology from before come back. “I really am sorry, that's hard to believe right now, I know, but I mean it when I say I do want to let you go home. I’m just asking that you try to remember you’re not the only one who doesn’t want to be here right now.”

She leans back in her chair and flat out glares. “Alright,” she snaps. “So you’re just going to play babysitter while we wait for my dad to come get me.”

A flicker of relief shifts across his features. “No, you're going to stay here until I can track Slade down and bring him in.”

 _Oh._ “That’s a better plan.” She says.

He smiles slightly. “I figured you would be into it.”

She tries to look at least annoyed but she’s honestly too hopeful at the idea of Slade going to prison, of him being out of her life. Way too hopeful. “How? Your hands are tied and Slade’s...Slade, he's not going to be easy to find. I don't even want to mention actually arresting him.”

He eyes her with interest, chin balancing on top of knit fingers. “You and your Dad aren't that close.”

She shifts in her chair, that had come out of nowhere, he hadn’t even bothered to phrase it as a question. She frowns, “What does that matter?”

He sighs as if it’s the most obvious answer in the universe. “It matters because you might know where he’s going.”

“No, we’re not close.” _Even if I wanted to be._ The words don’t come out biting they way she wants them to.

He watches her long enough that she starts to feel him pick her apart, more than he already has. “I take it you’re not a fan of what your father does.” he says eventually.

The cold pack suddenly becomes far more interesting. He’s right, again, and she is glad he’s right, but she hates being read so easily. Obviously she’s not a fan but that isn’t all of it, it goes deeper than that. Slade’s life had taken everything from hers because he couldn’t decide what he really wanted, a daughter or a payoff, so he tried to make her both. Detective work may be Nightwing’s schtick but this isn’t something she feels like sharing yet.

“No, no I’m not.” Her eyes are burning when she eventually glances up at Nightwing. He watches her intently and she makes herself focus on his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

For a moment she thinks she sees pity but he lets it go. “Knowing just how close you were helps me to determine how much information he might share with you, information that could be useful in tracking him down.”

It doesn’t feel like that’s the only reason those questions were asked, but he hadn’t pressed her so she can return the favor. She scoffs, “He’s barely known me for a year and other than the training he’s kept me at arm’s length.”

She looks up in time to see his eyes narrow. “What kind of training?”

She shrugs, “He said he wanted me to be able to defend myself, I already knew martial arts, so instead he taught me…” she realizes what she’s saying half way through the sentence. “He taught me how to use swords.” That probably wasn’t the smartest thing to admit to a superhero but well, there it is.

Nightwing seems caught somewhere between anger and sympathy as he rakes a hand through his hair. All of the relaxed shoulders and expressions have been replaced with tension and hard eyes. It’s not directed at her though, it’s at her shit dad. It feels kind of nice to not be the only one mad at him for once.

She snatches the ice pack back up and gently applies it to her nose. “If it’s any consolation I don’t plan on becoming a murdering shitbag like he is.” She half laughs.

After a second of being totally stunned he laughs too and Dick Grayson flashes her a million watt smile. “I don’t want to impose.”

She grins back softly. “Don’t worry about it.”

The cold seeps deep into her sore flesh as his laughter tapers off. There’s silence again but it’s not as uncomfortable. Her Dad might have made a huge mistake forcing them together because they might be able to pull off something like putting one of the world’s best assassins in prison. He is with the League and he is a Bat, if anyone could catch Slade, it could be him.

“So, since I don’t have anything on my dad, where do you go from here?”

He reclines back, rolling his shoulder. “We start with your phone, try and trace his number. If that doesn’t work we combine my intel on him and any last known addresses you can remember. That should give us some leads.”

She nods, and drops the ice pack to grab her phone out and push it towards him. “No passcode, just slide.” At his raised eyebrow she adds, “His rule not mine.” Part of the reason why she doesn’t care about just handing it off, Slade checked it now and again so she didn’t save much personal stuff on it.

He grimaces as he takes it and starts to poke through it. “You said you’ve barely known each other a year, who were you with before your dad showed up?”

The breath she was taking in catches. It feels like years have past not months. It’s the first time she’s thought about Mom in awhile, the first time she’s been asked. She hadn’t know any family or friends to call to tell, Slade didn’t want to talk about her, she hasn’t been able to talk about her much so she didn’t. She wonders if there’s anyone other than her that even cares that she’s gone.

Nightwing stops scrolling to watch her, visibly concerned. He’s still waiting for her to name someone.

“My mom.” She tries to swallow around the tightness in her throat. “She was-”

“Hey, it’s ok.” He’s leaning in now, almost over the table, his eyes are really blue. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

She does, she should, that’s supposed to be how it gets easier, other people need to know. She looks over where ever he isn’t, digs her nails into her palms, anything, anything to keep from breaking down completely right now. She can’t, it’s too much.

She waits for her eyes to dry and he lets her, gives her space when she doesn’t say anything else.

After a moment he sucks in a noisy breath. “Do you have any other relatives?” he asks quietly.

She stares at the wall over his shoulder, “Maybe,” She clears the thickness in her throat. “But none of them live in the States.”

He stares at her phone, fingers still and expression unreadable. She wipes at her face discreetly, no tears, so at least she gets to scrape by with some dignity. God, she must look pathetic, maybe it makes her look less like the daughter of a hirable killer. Probably not but plenty of other unlikely things have happened tonight.

He looks back up at her, face still stoic. “You have nowhere to go.”

She’s either getting worse at hiding or he’s getting better at looking. “I can figure it out.”

He looks far from convinced. “That’s not how this works.”

Her hands curl because she knows where this is going. “No, I’m not going in the system. I’ve already had a family, I don’t need another one.” She manages to keep herself from yelling.

His frown deepens. “This isn’t about replacing anything, it’s about having a home, people who care about you. You’re what fourteen?”

“Fifteen.” She spits out, closer to sixteen.

“Too young to be on your own.” He snaps back.

She glares him down. “Put me there and I’ll just run away. And you know they won’t catch me. Save yourself the trouble and just let me go when this is over.”

He sighs and squeezes the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “And what exactly do you plan to do? Cause that just leaves you on the street, jobless, and alone.”

“I’ll figure it out.” She snarls.

“I can’t just let you do that.” He grits out.

“How about you focus on finding my dad first before you try to shove me in some janky foster home?” She’s definitely shouting, and she definitely doesn’t care, but he shuts up.

She folds her arms across her chest and glowers at him. She really hasn’t been thinking that far ahead, up till now she was just hoping to get away from Slade. Not graduating high school limits her already slim options. She could maybe be a bodyguard, bouncer, but who would hire her? Probably no one she’d want to work for. She won’t be like Dad no matter how desperate she gets. She could maybe try vigilante stuff but that’s done for free, unless you work for the League.

Wait.

“How do you join the League?”

She watches him start before staring back up at her. “What?” he chokes out.

She rolls her eyes. “What if I joined the League?”

He scowls, “This is serious, Rose.”

“I am being serious.” She knows how to fight, the League would mean putting those skills to actual use. And fighting people like her dad, like him, sounds right, feels right. Plus joining the League would mean Slade wouldn’t be able to breath near her. Dad had made a mistake bringing her to Nightwing, she has a chance to become everything he isn’t.

Nightwing’s face hardens and something inside her sinks. “You don’t join, you get invited. And the vetting process happens to be pretty strict.”

She recoils. “I’m not like my dad, I don’t want to be, you know that!”

He shakes his head and doesn’t look at her when he says, “Even if that’s true we can’t, won’t, take that kind of risk. The League is responsible for the safety of the entire planet, we can’t afford to let someone so high risk in, even if you are perfectly harmless.”

“I've been cooperating with you this whole time,” she says sharply.

He doesn’t even blink. “A good start, keep going and maybe someday I can think about trusting you. Until then you don’t qualify.”

He regards her coldly. Maybe she fooled herself into thinking he saw her differently but no, she’s still just Slade’s kid.

Of course, of fucking course her Dad finds a way to ruin this too. Without even being here. How sick is this? She wants something better for herself, and she has an actual opportunity right in front of her, and she doesn’t even get a chance to try because of her fucking genetics.

“So what am I supposed to do?! This is the only thing I know how to do!” She stumbles over the catches in her voice.

“I gave you a valid option.” His voice is barely raised.

“At least let me try!” He doesn’t flinch even though she’s screaming again. She forces herself to breathe when her head starts to feel light. “How are you ever going to be able to trust me if you don’t even give me a chance?”

He considers her for a long moment before resignation causes his shoulders to sink. “Why do you want to join the League?”

Because it’s her only option. Because she doesn’t want a new mom or a different family. Because she doesn’t want anyone else to end up like her. She sighs and it comes out shaking. “Because I don’t want to be like him.”

He doesn’t say anything, his face has slipped back into impassive but she can tell he’s deliberating. She’s lucky he’s hasn’t just shot her down. It’s probably more consideration than she deserves. Maybe it’s crueler than that because the longer he takes the more hopeful she gets.

“Alright.”

Her eyes grow wide. “What.”

His expression is severe, eyes narrow and jaw set. “One chance. I’m giving you one chance to show me that you want this, really want this. Prove to me that this isn’t some ploy, that you’re serious about protecting people and keeping the world safe, and you can be part of the League. If not, you go into the system without fighting it.”

She wants to rebel at that final part, opens her mouth to do it, but then again she’s not planning on failing. “Okay.”

He nods firmly. “I want you to understand that you’ll be risking your life for other people with little to no reward or recognition. This isn’t going to be easy, in fact you’ll probably end up eating shit, a lot. If you do make it out alive, you’ll probably want to give up. So I’m asking you, do you still want this?”

Her heart hammers in her ears. “Yes.”

He smiles softly but there’s no joy on his face. “Then congratulations Rose Wilson, you just became a sidekick.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ey, I'm not dead. Just kidding.
> 
> Very sorry for the wait, between a major block, a new interest, and my already abysmal writing habits plus other life stuff that this fic actually hits close to home with, this chapter barely stood a chance. But I'm doing better, I still like this but things are just gonna be slow, I'm coming to terms with it. maybe not this long between updates again but I made the mistake of getting into d&d while I was away and trying to start my own campaign which sadly does take priority since it's a story I'm inventing with my friends.
> 
> I'll be around and hopefully it'll be soon.

“What are you doing?”

Grayson, with his hundred dollar sunglasses propped on his head, takes his time looking up from a bottle of shampoo, glancing around conspiratorially before finally looking back at her. “Shopping?” He whispers back.

She huffs and it makes her sternum dig a little further into the push bar of the buggy. “You’re stalling.”

He smiles. “And what makes you say that?”

She’s already starting to hate that perpetually amused expression. “Because you’ve been reading the back of that for longer than a minute.”

He doesn’t stop smiling but the shit eating part of his grin fades. “Maybe I’m just very serious about proper hair care.”

She grits her teeth. “Just toss one of the three in ones in. You’re a guy, you can get away with that shit.”

He goes back to the shelves with a shake of his head. She lays her forehead down on her arms that are crossed over top of the bar. This is punishment, for what she can’t tell but she hates him. Mostly because he’d woken her up at seven just to haul her to a Starbucks and then had taken her to one of the jankiest supermarkets she’s ever been in. The caffeine hasn’t helped save her from the next to no sleep she was able to grab but Grayson seems to just take it.

Now they’re here, shopping for essentials in a clash of ancient flecked linoleum and even more ancient grime and honestly, Bludhaven, she ain’t all that impressed. She knew the Bloody Haven was supposed to be kind of a shithole but she hadn’t expected some of the exaggerations to be so accurate. And that's only after seeing a few blocks.

The crash of shampoo startles her and she snaps back up to glare at him as he starts dragging the cart along. “Why are we here?”

He doesn’t look back at her. “Why do you keep asking the same question?”

“Not _why_ are we here, why are we _here_ in this…” She trails off as a woman stocking shelves throws her a warning look. “...place. Aren’t you loaded?”

He’s stopped to look at body wash and she watches him frown; didn’t like that. “I’m not.”

She steps both feet on the bottom metal rung of the cart, feels it creak in protest, and props her chin on her hand. “Wayne is.” She says, eyeing his brown leather jacket that probably cost more than any amount of rent she’s ever had to pay.

“Wow, regular detective over here.” He snides. Thank god, a chink in the sunshiny armor of this insufferable morning person.

Dick Grayson is difficult to read and she doesn’t like copping to that. When the mask slips on Nightwing is abstruse in his own way but at least that’s not surprising. Pragmatic, professional, that’s all predictable and she can deal with it, but the other parts, everything without the mask, is complex. Grayson is considerate, kind, but in a way that feels calculated, carefully weighted and planned. And there’s also an edge, a temper, a rebelliousness? She can’t quite tell what yet, just knows that there’s something sharp there. She doesn’t like that she can’t tell.

But that can be fixed.

She let's the silence drag out a little, long enough to make him think she’s dropped it, before saying, “So Wayne doesn’t fund you?”

Grayson sighs mid-reach. “Didn't say that.”

She curls a strand of her hair around her finger. “What are you saying?” She’s toeing a line here, for a reaction or answers it doesn’t matter. Either way she’s winning.

He turns toward her and drops a blue bottle of something in the basket with a wry, forced, smile. “That you're not that good at interrogating.”

The hair spirals off her hand, she only looks at him from the corner of her eye. “Interrogating?”

He snorts. “Believe it or not, asking someone a lot of questions, usually against their will, that's what interrogating is.”

She is so fuckin' tired of being so predictable, she’s also so fuckin’ tired. “No one’s making you answer.” Unlike her, unlike last night.

He suddenly steps closer, stoops down low to lean on the front of the cart, arms folded like hers had been. Sharp blue eyes are leveled at her. “I’m curious as to what else you think you need to know about me.”

Her pulse picks up for no reason, her foot had automatically slid back, needing space, needing a way out; all of a sudden feeling trapped without having done anything wrong. It’s not a new experience.

For half a second she smells cigarettes and feels fingers sinking into her shoulders and her mouth has gone dry. Then she’s back on aisle seven with Dick Grayson staring expectantly across a shopping cart at her.

“You said we were gonna work on-” she stumbles when his eyes narrow (both not just one) and he peers around. She glances around too, at the empty aisles, the metal shelves, the woman far enough down the aisle to not hear them, and swallows before whispering, “-cool shit.”

There’s a flash of suspicion as he finally leans out. “Just be patient,” he says, voice low.

He walks on, her grip relaxes, and slowly she pushes after him. Her sleep deprived mind can’t keep her from forgetting how dangerous the person in front of her is, the same person who decides what the next few years of her life are going to be, the same person who still doesn’t seem convinced she’s a good person. Maybe she isn’t but he can’t change his mind.

Did, did he get Superman body wash?

* * *

Her lungs are burning, the damp chill air of night snaking deep into her chest and biting against her bruised ribs. It doesn’t bother her as much as her shaking right arm, he’d struck a nerve there so hard it doesn’t respond properly, barely holds one of the escrima sticks he had given her.

Nightwing hovers somewhere in her peripheral a few paces away, seemingly content with letting her catch her breath on the dusty concrete.

They’ve been at this for a good hour now, a general skills test, just to see what they have to work with. Offense, defense, in hand to hand and now weapons. No blades. The double escrima would be more familiar if the weight change wasn’t throwing her off. But the worst part is he's holding back.

He’s MMA for sure and the styles he’s using are so reactionary. She can hardly hit him but he has no problems. It shouldn’t be this infuriating that he’s so beyond her _but_ _it is._

Slade preferred attacking to countering, more of a boxer, a swordsman, hits like every blow matters and if it matters it kills. It’s why he’s the best in the business. They had started sparring as soon as he put the training swords in her hands, he was more tame when teaching her but he wasn’t above showing her the hard way of failing.

“Need another minute?” Poorly contained smugness radiates off the question. Fuck this guy.

She stands up, forcing herself to stop gasping and rolls her bum wrist. She’s moved beyond angry snipping and straight into rather-cut-my-own-tongue-out-than-say-anything pissed off.

He waits, smile crooked under his mask as he settles into his stance, then he rushes.

She hisses, can’t block in time so she dodges back, more room, more room. He moves in, swinging high, arms too long and she winces into the block as wood strikes wood. Left stick, near her head, right stick, by her ribs.

"Good,” he chirps.

She hates blocking with these things.

She parries him away, right, and goes wide with her left, forward, sideways, jabbing, missing the reach she’s used to. He tilts and sways and lets them whistle past him and in the opening his right escrima finds her open side again.

She yells as he hits the exact same sore spot and she throws a wild strike with her right and hits air, of course. She wraps her arms tight around her torso as she backs up, trying to press the throbbing pain away.

Nightwing waits, arms down, back straight, and watches her, lips pressed, something less than satisfaction leaking through. Fuck. Bad training days with Slade meant black bruises and silence, here they mean no League, no second chance. _Fuck._

She’s closing the distance just as he opens his mouth. She slams both sticks into his X block, a shiver of pride at the vibration of bone instead of wood.

He throws her off, swinging both arms back wide. She can’t rush so she dodges left, blocks what she can with her right.

The punishment isn’t light, knocks feeling back into her arm. She stays in the block, takes the hit and brings up her left arm for the kick. Shudders as the blow slams into her. Pain. Fuck, his kicks are nasty.

He throws a few more strikes at her block then switches for a shin kick that forces her to move back. She feints right, dodging a hook kick, before dashing in and slashing at his side. 

The escrima grazes his shoulder before he parries her left away, opening up her guard.

She watches dumbfounded as her escrima flies out of her hand.

“Shit,” gets spat out as his shoulder collides with her chest.

The concrete meets her forearms and back and shoves the air back into her.

He stops for one second, looks down at her, face blank. She tries to glare as she heaves, somewhere everywhere a part of her body aches.

He grits his teeth and his heel flies downward.

She manages to get her arms up, panting, grimacing at the rush of hot pain flaring in her forearms. Not her face.

She doesn’t let him pull back, shoves his foot back up, tries to unbalance him while she stumbles to her feet.

He lets her, takes one step back, escrima twirling in his hands, face back to impassive. Her head light and rushing with the sound of her pulse, her last escrima gripped in her right hand, she stands ready. Breathless, askance, hands clenched, escrima in front, hovering just below eye level.

This is the part where they go again, until she doesn’t get hit or doesn’t get up, until she learns, until she gets it. Mistakes in combat are personal hand signed death warrants, if she can’t do it here, she won’t make it out there. Mom taught her that because she was scared, Slade because he wanted her to keep up.

What does Nightwing want to teach her?

He waits, then smiles, slipping out of his stance and putting the escrima back on his hip.

“Good work,” he says, sincerely.

Sweat is beading down into her eyes as he strolls past her. “You can relax now,” He calls.

Her arms slacken a little and she hunches over to get the burning pressure off her sternum, not taking her gaze off him. No, she can’t. Not yet.

“Why?”

He has picked up her escrima stick and stares at her with sort of an amused exasperation. Too many questions, right.

She rubs her tingling wrist, focuses on the maroon blooming under her shaking fingers. “Didn’t I fail?”

When she looks back up he’s searching her, frowning slightly. “I have a few notes. Your defense could use some tightening and you attack when you should be reacting, but all that comes with experience.”

He steps closer, taking her other escrima. “Clearly you come from a sword fighting background and that proved to be a challenge but you managed to stay flexible, a good skill to have, we’ll work on it. Your martial training is solid, you’ve got good battle sense, and you don’t let frustration force you out of the fight.”

He almost reaches out to grab her shoulder but he stops himself, smiles instead as his hand goes back to his side, white lenses showing nothing. “We’ll see how you handle multiple opponent but for now you did good.”

The inside of her palms burning from friction, arms shaking as the adrenaline runs out, the aches of her worst bruises starting to catch up, and she feels embarrassingly proud.

Slade could be sparing with his compliments so it’s been a while. But Nightwing thinks she’s good. A Gotham knight, a Leaguer, someone miles ahead of her in every aspect, thinks she’s alright.

It feels pretty good. Not that she can say anything because Grayson sure as hell doesn’t need the ego boost.

She angles her forehead to her sleeve and, offhandedly, says, “So I pass. Cool.”

She keeps the eye contact too long for casual and she can tell by the way his lip curls higher. An escaped draft forces her to shudder, takes away from her scowl.

Grayson paws off the mask and walks off to go change, his smirk not at all hidden. “Yep, and since you did so well, I say that means I spare you one night of food made by me and we eat out.”

He gives her one last look before heading behind the curtain. “Pizza?”

* * *

 They order in, and she’s glad for it, too cold and sore and worn to want food bad enough to go get it, even with the new jacket she got today. He takes up most of the silence with combat tips and tricks, that she can only half listen to, as he clicks through the online pizza maker. She’s not surprised by the surplus of meat and veggies he gets but she only calls him on it when he makes fun of her for her mushroom aversion. 

“They don’t taste like anything,” She snides as the doorbell goes off.

He’s shaking his head as he opens the door and pays the man, then, face befuddled, he sets the food aside and pulls in two more boxes.

He puts them in front of her. “Addressed to you.”

Two packages. One big square box that makes a dull noise when moved, her clothes, most likely, and the other long but not very thick. She can feel her nerves fraying as Grayson watches from across the room. They both know who these are from.

He hands her a pair of scissors wordlessly as she reads the labels. Names and numbers she doesn’t recognize, other than her own. The box opens loudly in the silence and in a pile of foam peanuts is a smaller, thinner metal briefcase. She opens the latches slowly.

Two sabers, single edged, thin and long and clean, rest inside grey foam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for commenting and kudosing, you kept reminding me I had stuff to come back to and I truly appreciate it. I'm just lazy and writing is hard, writing combat blows, i need to work on it.
> 
> If I go dark again for a while come find me on twitter and tell me to go write, (@_cakekat_) could use the company. or just yell at me here, either or works, i like hearing from yall.
> 
> @YJs3 turn on yer location I just wanna talk about what you did to Barb.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {serious overdue sidebar time. You'll notice in this chapter that I'm dipping into Rose's Cambodian-Hmong background. (which also technically includes Dick because he's part Romani) I feel it's only fair to notify you all that I am not poc but I am writing from a poc's perspective. I am doing my research to make sure I'm not screwing anything up but if you see anything that makes you uncomfortable or looks off /please/ feel free to correct me.}
> 
> *shows up a month late* Happy new year. I only updated three times in 2018. End me. but hey, that's what happens when your ma and big sis get married in the same year. Who am I kidding i suck. New years resolution, double that number this year, at least, and so far the odds are looking good, I've already got the next chapter in the works and I'm aiming to release it a month from now. hold me to it, anyone who's still here. Anyway here's a Dick chapter.

* * *

 

What is he doing.

Back bent, the holo-monitor splashing color across his face, he stares the silver case on his desk. It’s completely clean of fingerprints, other than Rose’s, he’s taken a few swabs that he’s waiting for the computer to finish evaluating but he’s not optimistic. Slade is too much of a professional to leave a trace but he has to check. Protocol. Leaning away, he tries to rub some feeling back into the place between his eyes and the pressure in the front of his skull eases.

Did he honestly consider for a second letting her join the League, the Team. Did he stop and consider how stupid the risks are. What kind of danger he’s putting the first line of defence for the Earth in, for a gamble? God, he’s been training her. He is training the daughter of a member of the Light that the Team just fractured barely three months ago. Has it only been three fucking months?

One sob story and he bends over backwards to give her a chance. Just because there’s a possibility he could steer her on the right path. If she isn’t on the wrong one already. Are they playing him? Mailing fucking sabers to his doorstep seems like a pretty big flaw in that plan. Why would they be going to such extremes to throw him off? Why mess with his head like this? Slade has the secret identities of several members of the Justice League. Batman, him, and everyone else from Gotham, maybe more. Why would anyone ever bide their time on that information? How did Slade even get it?

Christ. _Some detective._

The only thing that fits these patterns is what Slade has told him. He’s looked for any kind of surveillance tech, run scans over the apartment, the packages, Rose, her phone, everything, they were clean. Slade really was in a hurry. Tracking cell numbers hadn’t lead anywhere, likely because he was using a burner. Last known intel puts him escaping intransit to Belle Reve just days after Santa Prisca.

Rose had been easier to find. She hadn’t been under the last name Wilson, but it had been close enough for the Newtown High records in Queens to ping him. Born November 8, 2000, fifteen, last name Worth, daughter of Lillian Worth, originally known as Lillian Va, immigrated from Cambodia in 2000. Deceased. Police report puts her as DOA at the scene of a car crash just seven months ago.

The same year that her mother dies she meets her father, a trained killer, who didn’t even hesitate to put a sword in her hands.

He’s dragging his fingers through his hair, hears the chair creak as he shifts. She shouldn’t have to follow in her father’s footsteps, she doesn’t want to, it isn’t fair to force her. That’s why he bent and gave her that hope, because he’s weak and couldn’t look her in the eyes and tell her no and be the one to take that away. But he is playing with fire. There are parts of this equation that he’s not seeing, too many questions and floating variables, and he could risk it all for one kid and cripple the whole League, all while the Reach and the Light are breathing down their necks waiting for an opportunity like this.

She’s not worth the risk and the thought feels inhumane.

It should. Fuck him. How could he do this. Look people like Kaldur and Artemis, two of his best friends, in the face and say they aren’t worth it. Both of them with bad family, both of them exceptional members of the League. Invaluable. Not worth it. But it’s different, Kaldur and Black Manta’s connection had been unknown, and Artemis had been separated from Sportsmaster for some time. Even then until she proved completely trustworthy, Artemis had operated with limited League access and restrictions on identities.

Rose, who’s still a very real risk, would be going in with already crucial intel. If Slade finds out he involved her he’ll absolutely make good on his threat. They’ll be exposed, which unleashes a multitude of problems like putting everyone he’s ever known in danger of being killed by anyone he’s ever pissed off.

Rose isn’t worth it, not for the price of the League, the Team, everyone he cares about.

Needs of the many. It’s the logical choice, take out all the emotion and he saves more lives by ruining one. This is the same call Bruce would make. And doesn’t that thought just feel like a punch in the gut.

_“You aren’t your family.”_

He’s the world’s biggest hypocrite.

He hadn’t had family to take him in, Haly probably would have if the court had allowed it but he had been heading to an orphanage. Seven months after Mom and Dad died, he was living at the manor, Bruce had been awarded legal guardianship, he thinks he already knew he was Batman. That’s right, Bruce had started training him, bringing him to work crime scenes, at least the Zucco cases. The seatbelts in the Batmobile had been too big for him, the expectations were even bigger. Those first few months (black knuckles and empty rooms) he doesn’t like to remember them.

Just perfect. He’ll be shattering the trust of a girl who’s got currently zero stable role models in her life. No one in her life. One more kid in the system, till she runs away or Slade finds her, then any chance she had at a good life is over.

What would he have been without that chance? Not Robin, not Nightwing, just Dick Grayson. He can’t imagine a life outside this one anymore. There is no Flying Grayson, no Officer Dick. He’s with the League, the Team, Barb, Kaldur, Connor, M’gann, Artemis.

Wally.

Maybe just Dick Grayson would have been alright.

He has to pull his head off the pile of his arms on his desk when his phone goes off. His eyes supply the words Kaldur on his screen before his mind even comprehends that he’s picking up and answering.

  
“Hello?” 

“Dick,” There’s such genuine relief in Kaldur’s voice that he has to feel guilty. Right, three months. “It’s been a while. I apologize if I’ve been difficult to get in touch with, work has been...busy. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

He clears his throat to get the thickness out of it and slips into casual easily. “Not at all, Kaldur. It’s good to hear from you, how ya’ been?”

“I am well, like I said I’ve stayed busy. I was heading back to Atlantis for the evening when I noticed I’d missed your calls.” Kaldur’s voice gets almost stern. “I must say I’m surprised to hear from you like this, you’re not usually one to keep in touch.”

He laughs weakly, too exhausted to be embarrassed. “Called back just to lecture me? Can’t say that surprises me either.”

Kaldur chuckles, which means he must be tired too, he laughs more openly when he is. “Fair. And how have you been? I must admit I’m hopeful you’ll tell me when exactly you plan on returning to the team.”

His grins fades and he dodges. “They already driving you crazy, Kaldur?”

“Not at all. I only ask because you have been sorely missed here.”

The grinding in his head stutters and stops. He feels his heart pulling in his chest and it’s only when he opens his mouth that he realizes he’s speechless.

“Who ya talkin’ to?” Garth, somewhere across the room, saves him.

“Nightwing. Please d--”

“Nightwing!” There’s a scrabble for phone possession and then he hears Kaldur yell something that he can’t hear. “NightwingNightwingNightwing! You’ll never guess what I got to turn into the other day, can ya guess?”

He has to tilt the phone off his ear because Gar is practically yelling at him. “Hey, Gar.”

“I was a blue whale! Or y’know a green one. Can you believe it?”

“Real cool, Gar.” He barely manages to respond.

“Jeez, Kaldur, why do you still use a nokia in this our year of 2016?”

“Garfield! Give Kaldur his phone back.” There’s M’gann.

“I’m talking to Nightwing!” Gar shouts. He leans back in his chair and sighs, a small smile working its way across his face.

The line is silent for a time, other than some brief shuffling. “Dick?” M’gann finally asks, voice bordering between suspicion and hopeful.

“It’s me, M’gann.” He chirps.

She gasps dramatically. “Dick! It is you! But you never call!”

He can’t help but kind of wince at that while chuckling. “Jeez, drive the knife a little deeper, why don’t ya?”

She scoffs loudly, “Oh c’mon, you deserve a little bit of a guilt trip.” In a calmer voice she asks, “How are you? How’s your sabbatical going?”

_If only you knew._ “Good and great, it’s been nice to have some time off.” He lies easily.

“Hey, Birdbrain.” Connor, somewhere far off cuts in. “Get back here soon I’m running out of ass to kick.”

“Connor! Language!”

“Sorry! Gar, don’t say that!”

There is a very nearby sound of Gar giggling as M’gann orders him off to bed.

“That’s really great, Dick.” M’gann says eventually. “I’m very happy for you but I want you to know we do really miss you around here.”

Even when he sighs his chest won’t stop feeling full. “I miss you guys too, M. I’ll try and call more, promise. But could you please hand me back to Kaldur now?”

“I’m holding you to that promise,” M’gann warns as the phone begins to switch hands.

Kaldur thanks her softly. “Apologies, but I did tell you you were missed.”

He breathes out something like a laugh. “I believe you now.”

“Now,” Kaldur immediately shifts back to business. “What is it I can do for you, Dick?”

His mouth hangs open, all the indecision, all the questions he had planned have just vanished. All that agonizing to be solved in one minute, he can’t help but laugh, probably a little too long and a little too hysterically because Kaldur calls his name worriedly after a minute.

“Sorry, Kaldur. Actually, I think you already did.”

* * *

Rose comes around the corner of the living room that morning and starts when she sees him. It’s funny how hard she still tries to hide her surprise. 

He watches her eyes drag slowly over the room, to the missing silver case on his coffee table. Her shoulders slump then her eyes drag back up to his. Resigned before he can even say anything.

“You don’t look ready.” He murmurs around another swig.

She blinks, looks down at her sleep shirt. “Ready? For what?”

He glances over his shoulder as he pours himself another cup, mirrors the confusion on her face. “For training?” He says it with a lilt, like she should already know that. “Don’t tell me you thought that was it?”

Her brow furrows as her ice blue gaze searches the air for an answer. After a moment she shakes her head and looks back up at him, still bemused but it’s giving way to hope. “I can be ready in ten?”

He nods and pours a second cup for her, watches her rock on her feet uncertain, used to being dismissed. “Go.”

She takes off and Nightwing swirls the liquid in his third cup that morning.

Needs of the few.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally this was going to be swapping perspectives between D/R because even I can barely handle this friendship slow burn but we went places lol. Thank you for all the kudos, I'm astounded, I hope you're enjoying, and i hope this answers some questions about Dick's thought process.
> 
> Hope you guys are excited for the next chapter, someone new is coming, I'll see you soon!


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